


Something from Morrison in VCU

by Lysandra31



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysandra31/pseuds/Lysandra31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scully reads her e-mail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something from Morrison in VCU

** Something from Morrison in VCU **

It's the middle of the night, but you can't sleep, so you sit down at your  
desk with a cup of herbal tea, and power up the computer. You click the  
little mailbox, expecting to find only lab reports and junk e-mail, maybe a  
note from Ellen or Charlie if you're lucky.

Lab report. Lab report. Lab report. Earn Money At Home. Lab report. Lab  
report. Something from Morrison in VCU. Lab report. Last but certainly  
not least, XXXX Hot Lesbo Teen Spycam Action!!!

Sorry, lesbo teens, you think, dragging them kicking and screaming to the  
recycle bin. Goodbye, Earn Money At Home.

You're neither awake enough nor interested in looking at the lab reports  
just yet, so you mentally congratulate Agent Morrison on being the lucky  
winning e-mail.

 

> From: rjmorrison@fbi.gov  
> To: mlbarrett@fbi.gov, klbussard@fbi.gov,  
> rlemmo@fbi.gov, fwmulder@fbi.gov, dkscully@fbi.gov,  
> wsskinner@fbi.gov, naridalaw@microworld.com,  
> jennster69@torontonet.com, lysandra31@aol.com,  
> stigmeister@whoareyou.com, gnrationfo@lapals.com,  
> roqlobster@athensga.net, notachance@losfeliz.com,  
> caveless@oxbridge.org

You idly wonder if Morrison's throwing a party, since Mulder also received  
this, and Skinner, and Skinner's assistant, and Barrett and Lemmo from VCU.  
And the rest aren't from the Bureau so you have no idea who they are. Sort  
of a mixed bunch, you decide. You read on.

>  
> Subject: Time and the Heart  
>  
> Dear friends,  
>  
> Some of you know me from work, some from church, and  
> some from college. But I hope you will all continue  
> reading, and not delete this message out of hand. And,  
> if you feel comfortable, I hope you will forward it to  
> your loved ones.

Okaaay, this is already sounding very weird. At least you know who the rest  
of the people are now. Church and college friends of Morrison. You  
continue.

>  
> My story isn't uncommon, I'm afraid. If I can make it a  
> less common scenario, then this e-mail will have been  
> worth it. For those of you that I work with, some of you  
> don't even know me that well and this might seem too  
> personal, but I am telling you these things for a reason.  
> I'm not usually one to spill my guts, and I doubt I'll do a  
> very good job, but here goes.

It's three in the morning, Morrison, you think. 3:13, actually. Why would  
Morrison be spilling his guts in the middle of the night, and why are you on  
the list of people to whom said guts are going to be spilled? You wonder if  
Earn Money At Home might have been a better choice of reading material.

>  
> I had a friend who didn't know that I was in love with  
> her. If she knew, she didn't let on, anyway. Her name  
> was Collier Douglas. Weird name, I know, but it fit her.  
> She was named after her grandfather. We met in college  
> and have been friends for over 16 years. Collier was a  
> soulmate of sorts for me, one of those people who you  
> just know you'll always be friends with. We moved to  
> opposite coasts after graduation; I moved to DC for my  
> job; she went back to California where her family is  
> from. 

Morrison's telling you a love story? You picture him, sitting at home at  
his desk -- no, Morrison probably is the type to sit on the floor with his  
laptop on the coffee table. Nice guy, Morrison. And there he is, in front  
of his coffee table, late at night, about to pour his soul out to you, and  
to Mulder, and to Skinner, and though you suppose Morrison's not much of a  
drinker, you decide he definitely has a glass of something very strong in  
his hand. Gin and tonic, or vodka straight up. Liquid courage for  
Morrison. Okay, then; you've got Morrison in your mind's eye, and now you  
can read the rest of the poor guy's story.

>  
> We were very good about keeping in touch - for the past  
> 10 years or so we have seen each other at least once a  
> year, and two years ago I was lucky enough to meet her  
> for a weekend in Paris when we both traveled to Europe.  
> That's when things changed for me. I realized that my  
> friend was more than that, to me, anyway. Maybe I could  
> blame it on the City of Lights; maybe being away from our  
> jobs and our regular lives, in Paris, made everything seem  
> more romantic. But I fell in love with Collier that week,  
> and I never fell out. I didn't act on it, though. Other  
> than a few drunken kisses which were later chalked up to  
> far too much wine on both our parts, we never had any sort  
> of romance with each other. But for me, those kisses  
> meant the world, and I wasn't so drunk that I didn't know  
> what I was doing.

Oh, Morrison, you think. Nothing more -- just, Oh, Morrison.

Collier's a pretty name. You say it out loud: "Collier." You used to wish  
you had a name like that. Collier, or Bronwyn, or Madison, or Morgan --  
something slightly uncommon that smacks of Ivy League schools and family  
history. You don't really mind Dana, but you wanted something more than  
such an average name. You wanted a tall girl name, a blonde girl name. But  
now you're not Dana, not most of the time, anyway. You're Scully. You  
don't mind that.

You let out a deep sigh. You'd almost forgotten about Morrison. Poor  
lovelorn Morrison, apparently. Back to the e-mail.

>  
> I know I'm rambling now, but I'm going to try to get  
> through this anyway, so please bear with me.

You sigh again, and decide you're being rude to Morrison. He's trying to  
tell you something and you're not paying any attention. Well, it is three  
in the morning. But still. You sit up straight and make up your mind to  
give Morrison a little respect, since he saw fit to tell you his love story.

>  
> I never told Collier that I loved her. I should have. I  
> should have called her, or written her a letter or an e-mail,  
> or invited her to DC, and told her all the things I love  
> about her. It would have gone like this:

> Dear Collier,  
>     You probably will think I'm crazy for what I'm  
> about to say. But I want you to know that I love you. I  
> love you as a friend; that I'm sure you already know. But  
> I love you more than that. I am in love with you, and I  
> have been ever since Paris, and maybe before that, even, if  
> I'm honest. Paris was more than just a great weekend for  
> me. It was a revelation, and I don't get a lot of those.  
> In Paris, you looked more beautiful than I'd ever seen you,  
> and you've never looked any less beautiful to me since.  
> But even more than that, I just got a feeling, and it never  
> went away. From then on, I was in love with you, and that  
> was that.  
>     I hope this doesn't scare you off and make you not  
> want to be friends with me. I have no idea if you feel  
> even remotely the same way. I should know, probably, but  
> you know what they say, love is blind, and I just didn't  
> pay close enough attention to how you were feeling to  
> have a clue. Not a great thing to admit, that I wasn't  
> paying attention to the woman I loved. But it's easy to  
> not pay attention when you're having a good time.  
>     And it's not like I get to spend much actual time  
> with you, living 3000 miles apart, though I am very happy  
> that we have been able to get the hang of e-mail and the  
> internet chat thing in the past few years. Even if I am  
> always the one up until 2 am!  
>     C, I depend on you for so many things. I depend  
> on you to tell me when you I'm being a jerk and need to  
> lighten up. I depend on your taste, and your sense of  
> humor, and your sense of wonder, to make sure that I  
> don't make a fool out of myself when I shouldn't and  
> that I do when I should.  
>     There are a few other things I want you to know, C.  
> You should know that if it weren't for you I never would  
> have eaten squid or dared to wear that insane tie. You  
> made me laugh harder than I've ever laughed, especially in  
> that winery in Marin that day it was so hot. I would have  
> hated Disneyland if I hadn't been there with you. And I  
> can still taste the rain on your skin, on a bridge next to  
> Notre Dame, on one of the best nights of my life.  
>     You should know that I have tried to be a better  
> man because of you. You should know that I didn't let  
> anyone but you call me R.J. because I only liked the way  
> it sounded coming from your lips. You should know I think  
> you are beautiful and hopeful and a ray of light. You  
> should know that I love you more than I've ever loved  
> anyone, and I will love you every day until the day I die  
> and hopefully after that.  
> Love, Roger

You sit there, at your wooden desk, staring open-mouthed at your computer  
for a moment. You wonder what Morrison's trying to do to you. Did he  
 _want_ you to cry? Because if he did, he knew what he was doing. A tear  
rolls, hot and salty, down your cheek, and it's one of those nights that you  
know you're not going to wipe your tears away; you're going to let them flow  
down your face and land on your pajama sleeve, or on the blotter, and if  
they land on ink you'll just watch as the words become blurred and swollen.

And you know, in a flash of your own tears, why your name is on this list.  
Morrison knew you'd cry. Or he knew you _should_ cry. And maybe you're  
just tired, but you shut your eyes for a moment to squeeze the tears out  
faster.

>  
> As I'm sure you have already guessed, Collier is no longer  
> with us. She was killed by a drunk driver last week, and I  
> never expressed to her the extent of my feelings. Of  
> course I now regret that, and hope that she somehow knew  
> how I felt about her.

You knew five minutes ago that Collier was dead, but that has nothing to do  
with the tears still falling from your eyes.

You feel bad for Morrison, yes. But you feel worse, somehow, because  
Morrison worries about you, and what you might regret. He must. You resent  
Morrison's implications in including you in his little pity party. Who the  
hell is Morrison, to know whether or not you need to tell Mulder you're in  
love with him? And you know that's what Morrison thinks. Morrison thinks  
you've been pining away for seven years or so, stuck in the basement with  
Poor Crazy Mulder who won't give up, and that you should fish or cut bait,  
so to speak. Well, _fuck you, Morrison,_ you say out loud. Fuck you.

And still your tears roll, and you continue to read through angry watery  
eyes.

>  
> The reason I am sharing this with you is that I hope you  
> don't make the same mistake I did. Indecision is a  
> horrible thing, isn't it? We don't like to think of  
> ourselves as wishy-washy, or weak, or afraid to express  
> ourselves. I don't regret a moment I spent loving Collier,  
> but I do think ...what if? What if she loved me too, and we  
> could have spent these years together and happy and in  
> love? They say that nobody on their deathbed ever says,  
> "I wish I'd spent more time at the office." As much as I  
> love my job, and am committed to it, I think that's true.

You wonder if Morrison knows about your job. Commitment is one thing, but  
you and Mulder should literally _be_ committed. Yet you soften a bit at  
Morrison's words. You do wish you spent more time away from the office,  
away from hotels and morgues and rental cars and libraries.

>  
> Some of you I know very well; others I don't. But I  
> suspect something about each of you and that's why you  
> were chosen to receive this. I suspect you have something  
> hidden away in you that you should tell someone.

It's just as you thought. Morrison and his dead friend are trying to guilt  
you into admitting things you are unwilling to admit. You're obviously one  
of the people on the list who Morrison doesn't know very well; if he did,  
he'd know that you're not likely to be goaded into doing anything you don't  
want to do. 

You've been at the brink of death more times than you care to remember, and  
have nearly lost Mulder just as many times, and none of these occasions has  
prompted you to profess your undying love for your partner. Mulder, you  
admit, has danced closer to the fire with his feelings, but never close  
enough to get burned.

>  
> I know that until it happens to you, until you lose the most  
> important person in your life, you can't imagine it, but I  
> hope that this letter serves as a wake-up call. Don't be  
> afraid to really live your life and go after what you want,  
> be it in your personal life, your career, or whoever or  
> whatever is important to you.

Damn Morrison to Hell. Damn him for playing the fear card with you. Don't  
be afraid? Fuck off, Morrison. Fuck off.

You've lived through cancer. You've survived being abducted by madmen,  
 _plural._ You've seen people die; hell, you killed some of them yourself.  
You've fended off monsters and murderers and some of the most evil people on  
Earth. And Morrison thinks you're scared?

You have half a mind to send a letter not to Mulder, but to Morrison.  
Presumptuous prick. Here you were thinking he was a nice guy, when he's  
really trying to play God with your life. With Mulder's life. You don't  
think he has an ulterior motive, other than good intentions born of a  
difficult emotional time for him. Maybe you're just oversensitive, but to  
you, he's coming off like some sort of FBI matchmaker.

>  
> I'm not the most articulate person, I know, and I'm sure  
> this is rambling and could be put together better, but to  
> be honest I don't have it in me right now to go back and  
> fix it. I'm just going to hit 'send' and hope for the best  
> for all of you.  
>  
> Thanks for listening.  
>  
> Roger Morrison  
> rjmorrison@fbi.gov  
>

Closing still-wet eyes, you mentally pen that letter to Morrison. _Dear_  
 _Morrison, fuck off and leave me alone. You don't know me, and you don't_  
 _know Mulder, and I'm very sorry to hear about your friend Collier. Signed,_  
 _Dana Scully._

Your tea is now tepid, and you're hungry and wide awake, but unsure of how  
you should be feeling. The letter moved you; you can admit that here, all  
alone in your apartment, at 3:26 AM.

You are of two minds as to what to do -- or not do -- about this. Your  
natural reaction is to close Morrison's e-mail and get a head start on those  
lab reports, and to never think about Morrison, or Collier, or Mulder, for  
that matter, ever again. Your second choice is to let yourself be pulled  
into Morrison's overly romantic little web, and think about what you'd say  
to Mulder if you thought you wouldn't ever see him again.

You let your head fall back onto your shoulders, and open your eyes to look  
at the ceiling for a moment. This fully-awake fatigue will catch up with  
you this afternoon; you know it will. A double latte with extra caffeine  
will be in order at lunch, if you're lucky enough to have time for lunch  
today. Recently lunch has been getting lost in the shuffle on a regular  
basis; just thinking about the idea of another day of between-meal snacks  
that don't actually fall between meals prompts you to action. The cold tea  
goes with you into the kitchen, where you find an apple and a banana. You  
opt for the apple; the banana will provide a better source of energy later  
on if you do end up skipping lunch. A glass of ice water completes your  
after-midnight snack, and you head back to your desk.

It occurs to you as you bite into the apple, just shy of perfectly ripe,  
that you are fortifying yourself for a task, and it's not shuffling through  
lab reports. Damn Morrison.

You won't actually give this to Mulder, you decide. You'll just do it as an  
exercise. Making your feelings clear to yourself will aid you in  
controlling them. Physician, heal thyself, and all that crap.

So you sit back down and open a Word file.

 

* End *

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: Something from Morrison in VCU  
> AUTHOR: Lysandra  
> E-MAIL: Lysandra@socal.rr.com or Lysandra31@aol.com  
> DISTRIBUTION: With permission only, please.  
> SPOILER WARNING: Nothing specific.  
> RATING: PG-13  
> CLASSIFICATION: VA, M/S UST  
> SUMMARY: Scully reads her e-mail.  
> DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions,  
> and Twentieth Century Fox. I'm just a girl with an odd yearning to write  
> second person narrative.
> 
> This isn't a new fic: It was first posted in February 2000.
> 
> THANKS: Brandon, Leilia, Narida, and Trixie. I love you guys, I really do.
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was born out of the POV thread on Scullyfic, combined  
> with the Love Letter Challenge ... Heaven knows I can't resist a challenge,  
> even if it's self-imposed. This was my first try at 2nd person POV. Was it  
> at all successful??


End file.
